Conspiracy of Eagles

the legions. Those heads don’t make them question the general. Those heads have focused the mind of every man here. The cavalry were beaten, angry and humiliated by their defeat. Now, they’re hungry. They strain at the leash. They’re caged lions waiting to be freed and pointed at the enemy.”

He turned to face the front again.

“You can call it barbaric or wrong and you may be correct in doing so. But it served a purpose, as Caesar intended. He never does anything without thinking it through.”

Labienus nodded sadly.

“I can see that you truly believe that, Marcus. I hope that the day when you realise he’s gone too far is not the day you realise that you’ve gone too far as well. Sooner or later the general’s going to cross the line permanently.”

But the taciturn legate remained facing resolutely away, his silence a powerful statement about his mood. Labienus rode alongside for another minute or so and finally shrugged, hauling on the reins and drawing his mount out of the column. His eyes narrowed suddenly and he turned back, keeping pace with the column once more as the dusty scout on his fast Gallic horse converged with the column. His eyes rising beyond the man, Labienus could distinctly see half a dozen other scouts pulling back to the column. Another ambush? There shouldn’t be any more according to the information Priscus had torn from the captives.

“Ho! Over here.”

The scout, tracking the call, spotted the armour and plume of a senior officer and veered toward him. Moments later, the man came alongside and slowed his sweating horse to match the column’s sedate pace, saluting somewhat half-heartedly, as the irregular scouts were wont to do.

“Commander. I report finding enemy camp.”

Labienus nodded seriously, his eyes slipping sideways to see Fronto turn and pay sudden attention.

“What have you found? Details. Were they prepared? Were you spotted?”

“Enemy not know we come. Busy with meal. No defences; just picket. Not see us. Caesar get easy fight.”

Labienus nodded with satisfaction. Fronto couldn’t help his lip curling a little contemptuously. It was all well and good to condemn the general’s tactics in favour of a peaceful solution, yet the senior commander couldn’t help but nod appreciatively at the prospect of taking the enemy unawares, regardless.

“You’d best get back to the general. He’ll want to pass out the orders.”

”What about you, Fronto? You need to be there too.”

Fronto, shaking his head, pointed back along the line. “Everyone else has some manoeuvring to do. Not the Tenth. We stay at the front.”

As Labienus moved off toward the command section, beyond the first three legions where Caesar and his staff rode, Fronto watched the scouts converging on the column.

Riding quietly, his mood dark, Fronto heard the distinctive and purposeful clearing of the throat behind him only on the third time it happened.

“What?” he snapped quietly, not even turning.

“That was a somewhat unprofessional exchange, if you don’t mind me saying, sir.” Carbo murmured quietly from behind.

“I find it difficult to care right now.”

There was an uncomfortable silence which, Fronto knew, denoted Carbo taking a mental pause before saying something his commander didn’t want to hear.

“I fell the men back out of earshot as soon as I realized you weren’t going to stop, sir, but you have to remember not to show divisions between those in command in front of the men, and not to talk about them as though they’re sheep whose attitude can be manipulated with a few stinking barbarian heads.”

“But they can, Carbo.”

“Yes sir. I know that and you know that, and in all likelihood a lot of them know that, but there are some things you just don’t say in front of the men.”

Fronto, his anger beginning to boil over, turned to his chief centurion, but the open sincerity and utmost concern in the man’s pink, shiny, bald face was so utterly disarming that he found himself deflating and calming down before he even realized it.

“You’re absolutely right, of course, Carbo. Thank you as always. For watching my back, I mean.”

“My pleasure sir. Wait til you get your sword stuck into a few stinking naked tribesmen. It’ll all be alright then.”

Fronto couldn’t help but smile. It was quite astounding how easily Carbo and Atenos, the new training officer, had managed to fill the gaping hole left by the transfer of Priscus and the death of Velius over a year ago. Already he wasn’t at all sure what he would do without the good natured pink face of Carbo interfering in his affairs.

By the time his mood had risen enough to pay attention once more to the world around him, Fronto could see the army moving into position as per Caesar’s pre-arranged orders. The bulk of the cavalry had fallen back to protect the baggage train, their tactics being less useful in an assault on a camp than in a pitched field battle. Only the blooded and vengeful cavalry of Piso, currently serving under a promoted prefect, would be given a direct hand in the fight. The Tenth remained in central position at the front, while the Eighth moved into position on their left and the Fourteenth on their right.

Three columns of legions, with the Seventh, Ninth and Thirteenth following on behind and the Eleventh and Twelfth, along with the vengeful cavalry alae, in the third wave that would seal the trap and prevent escapes.

Fronto squinted into the distance, wishing he could already see the enemy. But they would be in view soon enough. Wishing he could dismount and send his horse back to the commanders, he plodded forward for a couple more minutes until the command section’s buccinae began to blare out the order to pick up to double speed.

Time to run.

Time to fight.

Chapter 7

(Camp of the Germanic invaders by the Moselle River)

The scout had been accurate about the state of the enemy camp — that much was obvious as the Eighth, Tenth and Fourteenth legions crossed the brow of a low hill at a double speed march and caught their first view of the enemy encampment splayed out before them.

The camp of the invading tribes took the form of a misshapen oval, the shorter arc at the southeast eaten into by the course of the wide, fast MosellaRiver. The only concession to defence was a low embankment at roughly thigh height, spotted periodically with watchfires that still burned in the daylight, doubling as cooking fires, throwing numerous columns of dark smoke into the sky. Clearly the barbarians had no fear of attack. More fool them.

As the first ranks crossed the hill, the pace of the attack changed from being set by the command section to the leading officers and, as Fronto bellowed out the order for the charge, relayed by standard bearers and musicians, he could hear the same commands being echoed among the other two legions.

The pace doubled again, the legions settling into a uniform, organised run. They were already half way down the gentle incline to the barbarian camp when the first cries of alarm went up among the tents, wagons and cooking fires.

Fronto smiled in grim satisfaction. Even the legions, the most organised and efficient fighting force in the world, would stand no chance of mounting a concerted defence in the time they had. Disorganised barbarians were simply doomed.

To their credit, a number of bulky, muscular warriors managed to grasp spears or swords from somewhere and clamber up onto the mound in time to meet the advancing legions, but as a defensive force they would be as effective as wheat to the scythe.

Fronto, his horse keeping pace with the front ranks of the legion, was suddenly aware of the drum of other hooves and glanced round to see that two of the tribunes of the legion had moved forward to accompany him. Tetricus had served with the Tenth since the first days in Gaul — a very unusual choice for a junior tribune, who